


Hoisting the colours

by cortchuzska



Series: Dornish wit [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 21:44:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortchuzska/pseuds/cortchuzska
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arianne, on the prowl for men at the Crossroads Inn, comes across some guys in the habit of turning down ladies, and one who usually doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hoisting the colours

Her skin tingles at a steady gaze warmth; she turns, and meets two emerald eyes. Their owner's striking beauty is set off by a gloomy, ugly fellow beside him. He knowingly smiles at her, tossing his golden mane, and she slowly prowls to him.

“May I sit?” She coos and winds her bronze snakelike arms around his shoulder. Viper eyes wrought in rubies glitter on her rings while she strokes his neck and his chest flat panes.

“My lady – I fear you took no notice of my cloak colour?”

“Always loved white – so _pure,_ so _innocent_!” Her husky voice is anything but pure, and her palms trail down fully aware of their business, utterly belying her words.

He tries to set her hands aside with an ineffective golden one. “A White Cloak has oaths to keep. Chastity, to name one, in case you didn't know.”

“I'm little more than a girl, but I understand enough of you White Swords and your duties, Ser.” She purrs to his ear. “Great uncle was one, and he had a paramour; and aren't you dubbed Oathbeaker?” She gives his groin a quick demonstrative squeeze, just to make her point.

“I'm a Kingsguard, wench, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard!” He lashes out, and his mate comes to his rescue, pierces her with a deadly stare and yanks her up by an elbow, grumbling a low threatening rumble.

She thinks better of it and takes her chance with another colour: the opposite of white, to be on the safe side.

A doe-eyed black-garbed cute boy sits in a corner, cuddling the hugest fluffy ball of white hair she has ever seen. She flutters her long lashes at him, strolls to his seat, and rakes her fingers through his dark-brown curls, making small noises.

“Can't you see my cloak colour?”

“Black as night. It contrasts nicely with your pet. Are you of the night, Ser?”

“Night's Watch. Not Ser, but Lord Commander. We swear vows as well. Shoo off.” He barks, and his direwolf snaps a her, less welcoming than the silent drinking companion of her previous unsuccessful try.

She turns her back on him with wounded dignity, and studies the surroundings. She catches the gaze of a hazel eyed, brown haired and damn good-looking youth, alone at his table, and looking restlessly about. Black and white are not actually colour – too _pure,_ too easily soiled, or too impossible to soil; but this one is a veritable peacock.

Before she slips beside him he flaunts his silken cloak. “Haven't you seen its colours?”

“What a lovely rainbow striped cloak!” She runs her hands on the crisp, shiny cloth. “Marvellous. The finest sandsilk, to be sure.” Said cloak owner is clearly more than a bit vain; but who wouldn't, with such dashing looks?

“You don't understand. I pledged him my unending loyalty.” He flushes. “I have the honour to be the Lord Commander of...”

“Don't tell me. Rainbow Warriors?” She sighs. “Never mind. It was nice to meet you, anyway.”

The problem is not the dye, but the cloak itself; it's the only sensible answer. Such clothing items will never be popular in Dorne, and not because of hot climate only. She scans the Crossroads Inn smoky common room for an uncloaked denizen, and when she finds one, she lowers her already outrageous neckline: since she is not long legged, she has to make the best of her breast, and strides purposefully swaying her hips to the table where he is nursing his wine.

“Would you fancy some pleasurable company, my lord?” She alluringly offers in a throaty voice.

“No way.” He firmly refuses. “I'm your uncle, and we are not Targaryens, nor Lannisters.”

He frowns lovingly worried at her: she is on the verge of tears, and pouts her lips as she were still a little child.

“Spit it out, girl: you look just like when Garin drowned you favourite rag doll at the pools.”

She plops down by his side, and asks plaintively. “What's wrong with me? Every single guy I approached turned me down, tonight!”

He pours her a cup of strongwine and pats soothingly her hand. “Arianne, love, you shouldn't feel so ashamed about it, really.” He points at a bench where the rainbow-coloured cloak welcomes a strapping black haired young man: they are hungrily kissing and groping at each other. “This is Gay Wednesday.”


End file.
